


Bear-wrestling

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cellist, M/M, Mycroft isn't, Russia, The Chairman is a bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:01:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has been requested by a certain Russian bigwig, hoping to get Mycroft to perform a little public relations magic for him. Mycroft is not impressed by this. The cellist is quite nice, though. Greg is, alas, a phone call away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bear-wrestling

Mycroft Holmes sat before the enormous fire, and drowsed. 

All of his awareness was on the cellist. He didn’t need to turn his head, or his chair, to watch the fingers crawling across the strings. He could hear the woman’s breathing, how each phrase was shaped with her own breath, her whole body rocking with the need of the music. The bow slid across the strings, liquid and graceful, and the rich, dark notes filled the room, softening the size.

Mycroft’s flat in Bayswater could have fit into the space, and still turn around. He could have moved his chair into the fireplace, and the cellist could have played across from him on the other side. There was marble, and granite, and gold leaf, and velvet. The chair he sat on was embroidered in silk. The small table beside him was hand-carved. The only light in the room came from the fire.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft smiled faintly, turning his head slightly toward the speaker, but he did not open his eyes. The cellist had stopped abruptly, and Mycroft moved his hand away from his face just long enough to gesture for her to continue, without opening his eyes. After a moment, he heard his companion sigh, and take a seat in the other chair near the fire. The cellist began playing again.

“You are enjoying your gift, I see.”

“Mm. And I could hear it better if you wouldn’t mind waiting. There are only three minutes and forty-two seconds left.”

Another sigh, but the man fell silent. 

When the final note sang free, Mycroft let his eyes drift open. He turned slightly, and smiled at the woman. “ _Gam-sa-ham-ni-da. Mae-u a-reum-da-wo.”_

She smiled and tucked her head at him, picking up her cello and padding softly into a distant corner of the room. 

“И спасибо, Председатель. Я считаю, вы хотели моего совета?” 

“We can speak in English, if you prefer.”

“I don’t mind. I don’t get as much practice with Russian as I used to, and I rather enjoy it.”

“Maybe we can work on changing that.”

Mycroft gave him a brief smile. “No one wants a war, certainly.”

The older man’s face creased, his lips pulling up, the wrinkles beside his pale eyes deepening. With a different lifetime behind it, it might have been a smile. But there was no warmth, and the expression fell away again so quickly that Mycroft imagined it was an exercise, practiced in fits and spurts, a brief clenching of muscles using momentum, throwing the face into position, but with no stamina, no power to maintain it.

“You know of my people’s bid for the Olympics in 2014.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched. “It was successful.” Now that he knew the subject, it all became clear. At least the cellist hadn’t left the room; she was playing something light in the background. It probably wouldn’t last.

“And we have pledged twelve billion dollars to make this happen.”

“So much easier to count it in dollars - it’s an awful lot of decimal places, in rubles.”

“I understand that London expects to spend twenty-five percent of its budget on security.”

“Is that what’s been reported?”

The Chairman studied him for a moment. Mycroft met his eyes. They were cold. Mycroft had a certain reputation of his own, but now, sitting here, staring at this face, he could not understand wanting to live through whatever had shaped this man into what he was, and prevented him from experiencing any emotion that might have marked his face over his lifetime. The eyes were small, high on his face, and so cold they seemed pointless.

Mycroft waited, unmoving, blinking occasionally. The cellist was still playing, and had moved from Bach to an English folksong. It was no hardship to him to wait.

“My country has a certain reputation.”

Mycroft couldn’t help a dry laugh. “Several.”

“We are an old country. We have old beliefs. We do not sway to each new fashion that bends the West.”

“Is it a question of maintaining traditions, or of refusing to learn a lesson?”

“Where these two intersect, it is politics. There are old ways to respond, and there are ...new ways.”

“And are you an old country, or a new one? That is not a question for me to answer.”

“It is my hope that we can be both. Or at least, that we can stay true to ourselves, without falling behind.”

Mycroft took a breath, shifting in his chair. He didn’t like having to wait this long while someone worked up the nerve to insult him while asking his help. It was more than a little unfair that he should then be expected to deliver the insult himself. “Chairman, I’m afraid it isn’t in my power to lie to three billion people on behalf of a foreign power. I cannot unmake your problem.”

“You found it easy enough to lie to the world about your brother and his difficulties.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. There would always be this wrinkle, now. It was a price to be paid, and yet he wasn’t inured to the demands. “That was a private family matter.”

“The story is all over the world, how you let your own brother be driven to suicide. Perhaps this perception of you as less than compassionate could be corrected, if you were to be seen as the man strengthening ties between our two mighty nations.”

“What is Russia offering the British nation?”

“There are trade agreements -”

“No.”

The Chairman blinked, but Mycroft was unmoved. “The Palestinian -”

“No.” It was wrong to enjoy it. Mycroft knew this. But if this had to be happening, and the insults were going to be delivered without a scrap of shame or regret, then there was no point in not taking the pleasure left to him.

“Our natural resources -”

“Please.” Mycroft laughed at this. “You cannot even regulate your own internal squabbles over your resources. The United Kingdom has no need to become reliant on such an irregular source.”

“England is such a small island, Mr. Holmes. Your population has always surpassed your resources.”

“Not entirely true,” Mycroft said pleasantly, straightening the cufflink on his left sleeve, adjusting his jacket. “There was a time when the British Empire spanned the globe. The Commonwealth itself hasn’t come to blows over its individual nations’ statuses in, well...years.” He looked back into the soulless eyes. “Whereas.”

“Many countries have suffered riots in the last year. Unrest is unrest.”

“Again, I fail to see what Russia has to offer.”

“Friendship.”

Mycroft lifted his chin, smiling a little. “Ahh. Such a beautifully simple suggestion.”

“And in exchange...”

“Yes?”

“Our...security measures. You understand Russia has not hosted winter Olympics before.”

“But you have hosted many international sporting events, and the summer Olympics.”

“The world has changed since then. And you know Olympics is not the same. The degree of interest from all across the world. So many events, so many different _cultures.”_ He lingered on the word, letting it spin out, drifting between them. 

Mycroft’s chest tightened, his jaw clenching. Nothing would have made him speak into that silence. Not love, not fear, not hate, not pain. Interrogation techniques could only scrape down through so many layers of the soul, and he knew them all, and their strengths. And his own. All of which was such a tiny fraction of the scale being proposed.

"You see our problem."

“Why Britain?”

“You are one of the most liberal countries on these issues. You have a loud voice on international stage.”

“Canada is much more liberal. Much larger. Why not them? Why not the US?”

The Chairman snorted. “The US is not that different from Russia. Only six states allow homosexual marriage.”

“Canada?”

“Canada has no voice. And England has you.”

“What you are asking me to condone -”

“Not condone. It is a security matter. For the safety of the athletes. No one wishes this wonderful international celebration to be marred by any kind of ugly disruptions.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

“That is no threat,” the Chairman added. “But you know it. I know it. Security, terrorism, this we are prepared for. Our budget is same size as yours for 2012, but for the same money, we must build everything. Sochi has not hosted event like this. Everything must be new. And the world is changing. In 2014, marriage laws may change in many countries. It is a leading issue all over the world. All I ask is that Great Britain help us in eyes of the world. You will have your games before us. Help us to learn how to manage these events.”

“You placed your bid, Chairman. You asked for this opportunity. The world was not so very different five years ago. It was always on the cards.”

“Yes, but you, with respect, were not.”

“Me,” Mycroft repeated flatly.

“Your profile has risen, Mr. Holmes. If you were willing...”

“I am not,” Mycroft said abruptly, coldly. “As I said, you placed your bid. I invite you to consider the view that an Olympic bid is a white elephant. The gift of the games always inspires ruthless competition, all over the world. And it can cost far more than one thinks, as 1980 showed. And 1972. And 1936. We fight amongst ourselves, then purport to put everything aside in favour of playing games for two weeks. And these games can beggar a nation, embarrass the hosts and the participants, and spur long-simmering feuds into action. Russia placed its bid, and won. It is now your responsibility to ensure your own success. You are no longer in the KGB. You are on the same playing field as the rest of us. If you don’t like the rules, then perhaps you need to resign the game.”

Mycroft pushed himself to his feet and turned away, crossing the polished marble and the plush carpets without changing his stride. 

  


Mycroft stood next to the window of his hotel room, looking down across the Kremlin at night. The window was open, letting a light breeze into the room. The gauzy curtain fluttered beside him, the air just enough to stir his hair out of its severe lines, beginning to relax into curls. He’d loosened his tie, and his jacket hung in the wardrobe. His hands were in his pockets as he frowned out at the quiet scene below.

There was a knock at the door, and he turned, swiveling from the hips, pausing a moment before crossing to open the door. A young woman stood before him, smiling nervously, her chin-length black hair held back from her face with a clip. She was still wearing the same restrained navy-blue gown with a full black skirt, but now she was carrying her cello in its case. “Pardon me. I’m sorry, but I wondered if I might play for you again.”

He recoiled slightly, frowning with his eyes even as his lips curved into a smile. “It’s all right. You are under no obligation to me.”

“I know that, sir. I have been paid. But I liked the way you listened.”

Mycroft took a breath, and smiled, holding the door a little wider for her to pass. “Then please, come in.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft had almost forgotten the purpose of his trip when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He got to his feet with a sigh, turning away, feeling the notes of the Paganini bouncing around the room even as he recognized the number. “Hello,” he said quietly into the phone.

The cellist hesitated, looking up at him, jarred out of her own reverie by his voice. “Please, don’t stop on my account,” Mycroft said, waving to her with his free hand. She smiled, and picked up again at the start of the variation.

“Jesus. Did you leave your mobile on at a concert?”

“Only a very private one, in my hotel room. And no, Gregory, you can hear that it isn’t like that.”

“Posh hotel,” Greg said, awed.

“I seem to have made one friend, at any rate.”

“Meeting over?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sounds bad.”

“Personally insulting, politically impossible, and quite beyond my ability to describe.”

“Is there going to be a war?”

“No more than there was yesterday.”

“Well, that’s good, at least.”

When Mycroft returned to his seat a few minutes later, the cellist finished the piece she was playing, then paused and looked up at him in the silence. “May I tell you something?”

Mycroft raised his head to look at her squarely. “Of course.”

“I didn’t mean to overhear your meeting earlier, but he always thinks that I cannot hear when I’m playing, and asks me to stay. You understand?”

He nodded. “I’m sorry if you have been put in a difficult position.”

“No, it is not that. I just wanted to thank you. I have friends who would have to move to China to marry. They don’t want to leave their families so far behind, so they stay.”

“I understand.”

“Will it be dangerous, in Sochi?”

Mycroft shrugged with his eyebrows. “It always is. I may be able to do nothing to make it safer, but I will not compound this by pretending there is no problem. I won’t pretend that anyone vulnerable coming to Sochi should lower their guard.”

She nodded. “Thank you. Would you like me to play the rest of the Bach for you?”


End file.
